"
I turned the flowers over, and considered his philosophy. "You are
less cynical than your wont, monsieur." I reflected. "May I say that I
like it better in you? Cynicism is a court exotic. It should not grow
under these pines."
He put out his hand to brush a twig from my doublet. "Cynicism is
often the flower of bitterness. Monsieur, you have been very good to
me. I cannot keep in mind my constant bitterness against life when I
think of the thoughtfulness and justice you have shown me."
I jerked away. "Sufficient! Sufficient! Let us be comfortable," I
expostulated, and I turned my back, and gave myself to my pipe and
silence.
The birds sang softly as if wearied, and the earth was warm to the
hand. I held the flowers in my fingers, and they smelled, somehow,
like the roses on our terrace at home on moonlight evenings when I had
been young and thought myself in love. I watched a drift of white
butterflies hang over an opening red blossom. Such moments pay for
hours of famine. It disturbed me to have the Englishman rise and go
away.
"Why do you go?" I demanded.
He came back at once. "What can I do for you, monsieur?"
His gentleness shamed my shortness of speech.
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